


NHL!Bitty

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: NHL!Series [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bitty pov, Getting Together, M/M, NHL!Bitty AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 15:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13661904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Bitty is playing his first game as a Houston Aero against the Providence Falconers.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt, and previously posted on [Tumblr](http://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com/post/170512112615/for-the-prompts-nhlbitty). My headcanon on this (bc even tumblr shorts have backstory) is that Bitty played on a good high school hockey team and got over his checking problem by throwing himself into hitting people instead of just being hit. He still went to Samwell, but was drafted by the Aeros as a sophomore. He stayed in college until he graduated and then was assigned to their AHL team in Baton Rouge before being called up midway through his first season.
> 
> Jack didn’t go to college; he played in Europe for a year and then joined the Falconers. So while Bitty is aware of Jack, they’ve never met.

Bitty sat in the locker room, breathing slowly. In for four beats, out for four beats. He had on his shin pads, socks and skates. His shoulder pads sat in the locker stall behind him, and his jersey, the name “Bittle” sewn in white letters across the back, hung to the side.

“You OK?” Ricksie was looking at him from the next stall.

Bitty opened his eyes and offered a small grin.

“Fine,” he said. “It’s just kind of a lot, you know? I don’t think I ever really expected to be here.”

“First games are like that, Bits,” Ricksie said, pulling his own jersey on an tapping Bitty across the shins and getting up. “You’ll be fine. Your folks here?”

“No,” Bitty said. “I just got the call last night after our game.”

“You mean the Baton Rouge game,” Ricksie said, with all the confidence of an AHL call-up who’d managed to stick at the NHL level for a month. “This is our game.”

“Whatever you say, old man,” Bitty said. “Coach said they might make it for the next game, if I’m still here.”

“You will be,” Ricksie said. “They need your speed to replace Willy.”

Willy – James Williams – had gone down with a truly grotesque injury to his knee. He wasn’t expected back for the rest of the season, maybe not ever.

“You’re starting on the second line, dude,” Ricksie said.

Bitty gulped. Rick changed the subject.

“Did you make pie?” Ricksie asked.

“Not yet,” Bitty said. “I literally flew in and came right to morning skate. Someone – Molly was her name maybe? – said they’d send the rest of my stuff to temp housing. Maybe tomorrow if I can get to the supermarket.”

“Cool. They guys will love it,” Ricksie said. “Let’s go. Time to hit the big time.”

*******************************

Most of the game passed in a blur for Bitty. He skated out on the first change and just kept skating, poking his stick out to disrupt the other team’s passes, snagging the puck and streaking for the other end.

That first time, his pass to Ginger skittered away and the Falconers gathered the puck in and headed back, but that was all right. Bitty was on the ice, skating and juking and spinning and passing, and it was fine.

He could do this.

He took his seat on the bench, guzzled some water, and moved down as players jumped on and off. Every third or fourth change, he would charge onto the ice and join the play.

Then Ginger and Baby Pops combined to get Bitty a pass that he put right on Snowy’s pads and he had his first shot on goal.

A couple of times he saw Falconers steaming toward him, trying to plow into him and get him to give up the puck.

Right. They’d have to catch him first.

But now that Bitty was more comfortable, he started looking for his chances. He took the opportunity to plaster St. Martin, who spent a second too long dithering with the puck near the blue line. The puck squirted forward, where Mashkov got it and shot wildly, with the puck going out of play into the protective netting.

As the whistle blew, Bitty turned and extended a hand to St. Martin.

“Sorry, old man,” he said.

St. Martin climbed to his feet without taking Bitty’s hand.

“How old are you, 12?” he said. “I have ties older than you.”

Bitty snickered and glided toward the face-off circle.

***************************************

The game ended with the Aeros up 3-2, a big win over a team that was favored. Bitty accepted cuffs on his helmet and slaps on his back from the veterans, who seemed pleasantly surprised that he played defense as well as offense and was willing to make a hit on guys bigger than him to get the puck.

As he skated off, he nearly collided with a Falconer who towered over him. Now that the game was over, his usual manners were back in place so he looked up to say “Sorry.”

He found himself looking at the clearest, deepest blue eyes he had ever seen.

Of course Bitty knew Jack Zimmermann. Half his college hockey team had man-crushes on Zimmermann, who had picked the Falconers up and put them on his back and carried them all the way to the Stanley Cup his second year in the league. And with all those man-crushes, it was easy enough for Bitty to disguise his run-of-the-mill gay-boy crush.

But after being drafted by the Aeros and leaving New England, he didn’t have to contend with endless discussions of Zimmermann’s assets, or close-ups of his chiseled face on billboards, or all-but-naked posters of Zimmermann in the communal bathroom.

That last one had been the worst.

None of it had done justice to the sweaty, flushed hockey player standing in front of him, apologizing right along with him. Of course. He was Canadian.

Then Zimmermann clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Good game, rook” before he skated off.

Dang. Bitty thought he was over that.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty and the Aeros run into some Falconers at dinner.

It didn’t smell better. Not really.

That was Bitty’s first thought when he made his way to the locker room. It still smelled like hockey, like the dank rooms under the bleachers the boys had changed in in high school, the locker room at Faber, the one in Baton Rouge.

It was cleaner, he thought, or at least, it was cleaned better, because it hadn’t smelled so bad before the game. Maybe there was just so much air freshener could do against 20 sweaty bodies, bodies wrapped in pads and jerseys and socks and skates. It didn’t matter. The familiarity was comforting.

Bitty shook the image of Jack Zimmermann – was that a smile he saw before Zimmermann skated away? Or had he imagined it? Jack Zimmermann never smiled – out of his head and sat down in front of his stall.

There was a camera and a handful of reporters gathered around Ginger, who had two of the three goals. Most of the guys were just removing outer layers, waiting for the reporters to move on, but Bitty could hear showers already running around the corner as he started to untie his skates.

Then the bright light of the camera flashed in his eyes and young woman, blonder than him, was holding a microphone to his face and introducing herself. Karla Taylor, she said.

“That was a nice first game, Eric,” she was saying. “How did you feel about your effort?”

Eric grinned, and remembered his media training.

“I thought the team played really well tonight,” he said. “I’ll be honest, I was a bit nervous to be joining the team in the middle of the season, but the guys made me feel right at home out there on the ice.”

“I’m afraid you didn’t make Sebastian St. Martin feel too at home in Houston,” Karla said. “He’s a big man to check. What were you thinking going into that play?”

“Well, he is big, and he’s experienced and he knows what he’s doing, so I knew if I gave him time, he’d set up some kind of play that would be tough for Monty to stop. I just knew the best thing would be to knock him off the puck.”

“I’m sure there are no hard feelings,” Karla said. Then the camera light went out, Karla thanked Bitty for his time and the team was blessedly alone.

*****************************

“Eric Bittle!”

It had been so long since Bitty had been called by his full name that it took him a moment to look up from where he was tying his shoes. He was wearing one of his two gameday suits – thank God Mama had insisted he needed two – and wondering if he could get away with tucking his tie in his pocket and leaving his collar open.

Pops was standing in front of him, tie on, and Bitty groaned. Silently.

“Ricks here said your mom and dad didn’t make it for your NHL debut, so it’s on us –” Pops gestured around him “– to take you out for your first post-game meal.”

“That’s really nice of you, but you don’t have to do that,” Bitty said. “Really. I was just gonna go home – once I find out where home is – and get some sleep.”

“Nope,” Pops said. “We have to make you feel welcome. First game is a special occasion, and we won, and you didn’t play like shit.”

“You’re probably in the same building as me,” Ricksie said. “They keep a few furnished units for players who come in the middle of the season.”

“See?” Pops said. “Ricks can come too. He’ll see you home safe, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re not going to corrupt our sweet, innocent baby boy.”

Gus snorted from the next stall but one.

“Innocent, my ass,” he said. “It’s always the baby-faced ones you have to look out for.”

Bitty wanted to huff a sigh and say he was beat, because he was, but this was his new team and he was hoping to stick and begging off would not make a good impression.

“That’d be great,” Bitty said. “I appreciate it, since I haven’t had a chance to get groceries.”

He stood up and pocketed the key and address he’d found on his shelf after the game, presumably placed there by Molly.

“Just, I probably should make it a kind of early night. Mitchell already told me I have a meeting with the strength coach at 9 tomorrow morning.”

Ricks winced in sympathy, and Gus shook his head. “Better you than me,” he said.

****************************

The restaurant was what Bitty would have expected: a classic steakhouse, all dark wood, leather chairs and exorbitant prices.

Bitty gulped when he saw menu, and started wondering if he could convince the others he just wasn’t hungry enough for a full meal and would be satisfied with an appetizer.

Pops, who wasn’t nearly old enough to be his father but seemed to enjoy acting like he was, noticed.

“Order what you like,” he said. “This is on Gus and me. We know you haven’t been paid yet. But Ricksie here is on his own.”

Ricks sat back in his chair and smiled wide. “No worries, man. I got it.”

When the waiter came, Ricks ordered whiskey and then a steak. Pops joined him in his red meat fest, while Gus went for the pork chops. Bitty decided to take the seafood option, ordering gulf snapper with lobster sauce.

“Fancy,” Pops said.

Then he stopped talking, his eyes tracking to the door.

Where Sebastian St. Martin, Alexei Mashkov, Randall Robinson and Jack Zimmermann stood, waiting for a table.

“Marty!” Pops called. “Come join us!”

As the staff hurried to rearrange the tables to make room for the newcomers, Pops said, “Marty’s a great guy. He and I played together when we were coming up, in the ECHL. Robinson’s a good guy, too.”

When the tables were pushed together and set, the Falconers made their way over. St. Martin stood next to Bitty and just looked at him.

Bitty wanted to apologize again for hitting him. He wasn’t used to playing hockey – at least, serious hockey, games that counted – with men a decade older, and St. Martin didn’t look like he’d be the kind of bully Bitty loved to get revenge on. But checking was part of the game – was part of _his_ game – and if St. Martin was going to play, then it was a risk he had to accept.

But now Mashkov was eyeing Bitty up. He concentrated on standing his ground, looking straight back, until Mashkov turned to Marty and said, with a perfectly straight face, “You are needing me take care of this guy for you, Marty? He is looking dangerous.”

Bitty wasn’t sure if he was being chirped, or St. Martin, when Jack Zimmermann finally broke and snickered.

“Fuck you, Tater,” St. Martin said genially, and the ice was broken.

Bitty said, “Tater?”

“Tater, like tiny potatoes,” Mashkov said, smiling at him.

“People call me Bitty,” Bitty said. “Because of my name.”

“Well, not _just_ because of your name,” Ricks said, and Bitty felt the color rise in his face. He knew he was smaller than the average pro hockey player, thank you very much.

It didn’t help to look up and see Jack Zimmermann’s eyes fixed on his face, his expression unreadable. At least to Bitty.

Then, thank the Lord, Zimmermann changed the subject. “You went to Samwell, right?” he said. “My mom went there. Before your time, of course. I didn’t know they had much of a hockey team.”

That started Bitty off on his college teammates. Holster was still in the AHL, and Chowder had been drafted by the Schooners. For a small school, Samwell Men’s Hockey did just fine, Bitty thought.

After he got the table laughing about the team’s antics, he decided to push his luck.

“We have a lot of Falconers fans on the team,” he said. “Can I maybe get a selfie with y’all to put on the group chat?”

Mashkov immediately jumped up and started arranging people.

“You in front in middle,” Mashkov said, pushing Bitty into position and handing Bitty’s phone to Gus. “You take our picture, right?”

Gus took a few shots, Mashkov rearranging the group each time. When they were done, Mashkov peered over Bitty’s shoulder as he flipped through the photos. “This one,” he said, stopping Bitty on a frame that had everyone looking at the camera. “You send it to Jack and he put it on his Twitter account. The team is trying to make him more active with social media, and I’m coaching him.”

Bitty shrugged. It was fine with him if the man he’d been drooling over (and, well, other things, because that poster was in the bathroom where he could see it from the shower) for three years wanted to post a picture with him.

“Where should I send it?” Bitty asked Jack, suddenly realizing that they were on a first-name basis.

Instead of giving him a Twitter handle, Jack said, “Give me your phone.”

When Bitty got it back, he had a new contact – J. Zimmermann – with a phone number. Bitty opened the text thread to see that Jack had sent himself a text from Bitty’s phone.

_This is Itty Bitty’s number._

When Bitty caught his eye, Jack smirked and said, “You should eat more protein.”


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty keeps playing, and the Aeros meet the Falconers again.

If Bitty said he never thought about Jack Zimmermann after that, he’d be lying.

It wasn’t like he was obsessed with the man whose poster hung in the Haus bathroom. Actually, he never really thought about that brooding, built image at all. Now when Jack Zimmermann crossed his mind, it was the bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked player who congratulated Bitty after his first game; the man who, yes, filled out his suit in all the right ways, but also laughed with his friends and looked so earnestly at Bitty.

But Bitty’s life centered on the ice and on the Aeros. He still baked when he had the chance, despite an oven in his temporary apartment that always ran hotter on the right side. Most of the time, his days were filled with conditioning, practice, team meetings, pr and charity obligations, and, as much as possible, sleep.

He missed the baking vlog he’d taken down when he entered the draft if only because he wanted to feel like he could ramble about his life while demonstrating how to peel apples or fold in egg whites without anyone really knowing who he was. The anonymity, false as it was, had been comforting.

Of course, that wouldn’t work anymore. That was why he couldn’t do the vlog; too many people would know who he was, and anything like that would have to be approved by pr anyway.

So he kept up on the SMH group chat and called his mother two or three times a week. Ricks lived not only in the same building but on the same floor; the coaches had them rooming on roadies and Bitty appreciated their burgeoning friendship.

Nine days after arriving in Houston, Bitty scored his first goal in San Jose, against Martin Jones. He spared a thought for Chowder, but that didn’t stop the grin from splitting his face as his team surrounded him.

After the game – an Aeros loss – there was a series of texts from Chowder:

_Great goal Bitty!_

_But it’s on the sharks :(_

_but you did really well! Congratulations!_

Bitty took his time after the game responding to the ridiculousness of the group chat, telling his mother he would call her tomorrow, and reassuring Chowder that he understood his divided loyalties. He was about to slide his phone into his pocket – no, not the pocket that his his goal-scoring puck wrapped in in tape – and go in search of food with Ricks when his phone buzzed again.

He thought it would be Chowder with more commentary, or his mother reminding him not to call during book club.

Instead, the name that popped up was J Zimmermann.

_Congrats on the goal! I’m sure it will be the first of many._

Bitty was still staring at the screen when Ricksie tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Leave your adoring fans for a little while and come get some food.”

********************************************

Six weeks after Eric got called up, the team had a three-game swing through New England, including their only game that season in Providence.

Even though all the games were against Eastern Conference teams, the Aeros were fighting for every point in hopes of making the playoffs. The Falconers were more or less assured a spot, unless their season took a disastrous turn, but it didn’t look like that would happen.

After that first text from Jack (to which Bitty had thumbed a quick _Thanks_! In return before leaving with Ricks) there had been a handful of other interactions. Bitty congratulated Jack on his third career hat trick (a hat trick of hat tricks, Bitty had called it), and Jack had taken the time to acknowledge it.

Jack texted after Bitty took a nasty hit in Minnesota. _Told you you should eat more protein. You OK?_

Bitty had texted back, _I’m fine._ And it was true, for a certain value of “fine.” His ribs were purple for weeks, and he may have had to wear a brace on his ankle for a while, but he could still play.

By the time the Aeros took the ice in Providence, the bruises were faded and his ankle was actually fine. Jack had texted him a _Welcome to Rhode Island_ message, and a _Looking forward to playing against you message,_ and Bitty didn’t really know what to do with that. He settled for a quick _Thanks. See you on the ice._

He tried to put Jack – no, better to call him Zimmermann, even in his mind – out of his thoughts as he went through the motions of morning skate, team meeting and lunch and pre-game nap.

When he got up in plenty of time to board the bus back to Dunkin Donuts Center, there was another text from Zimmermann.

_I meant you’re good competition._

Bitty shook his head. Was Zimmermann – ok, Jack – worried that he had been slighted? That Jack had somehow implied his team was better? Bitty hadn’t taken it that way; if anything, he was surprised Jack was thinking about this so much.

_No offense taken. Remember who won last time ;-)_

********************************

The Aeros did not win this time. Not even close.

The game was 5-1 in favor of the Falconers going into the third period, with the Falconers winning every race to a loose puck and most of the faceoffs. Bitty spent most of the game speeding up and down the rink, trying to break up passes and push Falconers off the puck.

He didn’t have much more success than the rest of his teammates, although he did score the Aeros’ lone goal in the second on a breakaway from the blue line in, using a neat crossover move that left Snow extending his right pad after the puck was in the net.

In the third, he found himself trying to cut Mashkov off as he moved up the ice. Instead of going for the poke check, Bitty threw all his weight at Mashkov’s shoulder – well, more like his bicep – to disrupt his charge. Only this time, Bitty found himself falling to the ice as Mashkov pushed on.

At the next break in play, Mashkov skated close and and said, “ I hope I’m not hurt you, Itty Bitty. I don’t want Zimmboni mad with me.”

Bitty just grinned as he skated towards the bench. Once, having someone nearly a foot taller push him down would have sent him into a spiral of fear and anger and guilt. That was before he discovered that at least half the time, he could push them down first.

“I’m fine,” Bitty said. “You know what they say: The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Oh, so not a problem for you?” Mashkov crowed, clearly delighted with his own chirp, and then they were on their respective benches and play was starting.

After the game, Baby Pops stopped by his locker. “I’m meeting some of these fucking Falconers for dinner and drinks. Want to come?”

The group was much the same as the dinner in Houston, with Baby Pops and St. Martin (Marty, Bitty reminded himself) the core pair of friends that gathered the rest.

This time, they told stories of their time in minor-league hockey, of bus trips and bad hotels and worse food. Marty swore that Jessica ruined Pops when they started dating; he was no longer up for anything – and anyone.

“But I can’t complain,” Marty said. “I’m honestly not sure he’d still be with us without her.”

The mood turned somber, but only until Pops returned, “Good thing you met Gabby, then. You’d still be the thing that wouldn’t go home without her.”

Everyone laughed, but as Bitty speared another bite of his pulled pork, Jack caught his eye.

“What about you?” he said. “Got anybody special at home?”

Bitty laughed, and hoped that the tips of his ears didn’t match the red upholstery of the booth.

“No,” he said. “I’ve only been in Houston a few weeks, and if it isn’t the rink, my apartment or the supermarket, I haven’t been there. Even when I go out, I’m usually with this crew.”

“So no hometown honey?” Mashkov said.

Bitty shook his head. Chances were, he wasn’t the only gay boy from Madison, Georgia. But he’d never even thought about taking a chance on finding out. Any liaisons – none serious enough to be called a relationship – happened at Samwell, where anything could be chalked up to youthful experimentation. He knew he was gay, and while he was pretty sure his friends and some of his teammates assumed he wasn’t exactly straight, he didn’t usually discuss it.

Ricksie saved him by jumping in.

“I had a girlfriend from home,” he said, “but every night when I couldn’t call her before 11, she thought I was out getting in trouble. I kept telling her we had games.”

“Which all ended by 10,” Bitty said. “And then you went out and got in trouble.”

Just as Marty and Pops were divvying up the check, Jack leaned toward Bitty and said, “You think your friends would want another selfie?”

So Bitty pulled out his phone and moved in front of Jack, who brought his head just over Bitty’s left shoulder and they both smiled at the screen.

Bitty told himself that he had no business missing the warmth of Jack at his back when he moved away.

“I can send it to you if you want to post it,” Bitty offered.

When Jack said, “Sure, go ahead,” Bitty hit send. Then Jack said, “Maybe I won’t post this one. Wouldn’t want to spoil my followers.

 


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty's season ends, and he visits Samwell (and Providence).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't blame me. That's just the way Jack is.

 

The end of the season always sucked. There was no way around it. Well, there was one way around it. Winning it all wouldn’t suck, Bitty thought. But that hadn’t happened since high school, when the competition was a lot less intense.

Going out in the first round of the playoffs was … disappointing. Not as disappointing as not making the playoffs at all, Bitty thought, but still disappointing.

It was like winning a silver medal at a figure skating competition, or maybe a bronze. On the podium, but not on top, and everyone talking about how well you did, when all you could do was look up and see how much better you had to do.

That didn’t stop the guys from coming to congratulate him at locker clean-out.

“You did good, kiddo,” Baby Pops said. “We wouldn’t have made it as far as we did without you.”

Bitty tried for a smile, and said, “Thanks. Wish we could have gone further.”

“Hey, we took the Aces to six games,” Pops said. “You’ll be back next year, and Tricksie Ricksie. We’ll get there.”

Bitty nodded in acknowledgement, but he didn’t feel anywhere near as confident as Pops sounded. Next year wasn’t promised to anybody. That was a lesson Bitty learned when he had to quit figure skating just as he was poised to break out, maybe make the junior nationals.

But then his family had moved, and when he talked about maybe billeting with a coach somewhere else so he could continue skating, his mother had cried and his father had spoken quietly about how that would mean borrowing against the house, Junior, and he put that dream away.

Sometimes it didn’t take a tragedy to end things; sometimes, that’s just the way it worked out.

Bitty shook his head to clear the melancholy away. Things had turned out better than he had any right to expect, with half a season on an NHL team under his belt. He’d certainly earned more in three months than any but the most successful figure skaters.

He bent down to zip his gear bag, the shelves of his locker stall bare. He hoped the Aeros would want him back next season, but he wasn’t counting on it.

He’d told Molly he’d be out of the temporary rental by the end of the week. She’d smiled and told him she would have a list of realtors from him to choose from in August so he could find his own place.

Ricks was waiting in his car, air conditioning already blowing even if it was only April. That was another thing; Bitty would have to bring his car if he returned to Houston, or maybe buy a new one. He’d left his old Ford truck in Baton Rouge; his father had flown to Baton Rouge and driven it home to Georgia.

The Falconers had a game tonight, facing the Islanders to start their second-round series. He could watch that while he made some pies to leave for the front office staff tomorrow. Shoo-fly pie, maybe. It was too early for any fruit to be in season.

Bitty was blind-baking the crusts and just starting to mix the filling when Ricks knocked on the door.

“BIts, you there?” he called. “I brought beer.”

So Bitty baked and drank and Ricks drank and chirped and both of them watched Jack Zimmermann score two goals in the opening game of the Falconers series against the Islanders.

As soon as the final buzzer went, Bitty reached for his phone to send a text.

_Great game, Jack!_

“Who’re you texting now?” Ricks asked.

“Zimmermann,” Bitty said. “Congrats on the game.”

“I didn’t know you had his number,” Ricks said.

“Aw, jealous?” Bitty said. “You’re still my best friend.”

***************************

Bitty spent eight days at home in Madison with his parents before his skin got itchy with the need to go where he could be more … himself. 

It wasn’t so much that he told his parents he was straight as it was they just didn’t talk about it. It was kind of like they’d reached an agreement that Bitty’s sexuality was not an appropriate topic without ever mentioning it at all.

At least Mama and Coach didn’t ask him if there were girls lined up to go home with an NHL player, the way his cousins did.

Bitty considered why it was so bothersome; it wasn’t like he had been out and proud in Houston or Baton Rouge. But those were places where he worked. His value to the team was based on his hockey production mostly, but also a little bit on his popularity with the fan base. Whether they would accept a gay player was an open question, one the Aeros probably weren’t too keen to learn the answer to just now.

In any case, he was pretty sure some of his teammates suspected he wasn’t straight. Ricks knew Bitty didn’t pick up girls when they went out together, no matter how many times Ricks pointed out likely prospects. Baby Pops and Ginger had stopped teasing him about his presumed innocence after the first week. But whatever they thought, they didn’t seem to have a problem with Bitty.

But his family was supposed to love him, love all of him, and he didn’t like not knowing whether they would still love him if came home crying or crowing over a boy.

So Bitty took the key to his truck and told Mama and Coach he was heading to Samwell for graduation, to congratulate his frogs and wish them well. He made the 16 hour drive over two days, blasting his music through the FM stereo adapter he had plugged into the old truck’s cigarette lighter.

He stopped outside of Washington, D.C. and brought his laptop into the hotel room to watch the Falconers win Game 5 and take the series from the Islanders. If he’d planned better, he could have gotten to Washington the day before and taken in the Capitals-Lightning game. Maybe next time.

By the time he pulled up to the Haus the next day, a plan was forming in his mind. Classes had just ended, and there was almost a week until graduation. The Falconers would probably be playing Game 1 of the conference finals before graduation, and they’d probably be at home, if Washington pulled it out.

He was an NHL player, right? He could probably get tickets to the game if he asked. Maybe Baby Pops would know how.

After Bitty embraced Nursey and Dex and was tackled by Chowder, he carried his bag up to Chowder’s room and set up the air mattress. Before heading back to the kitchen, he texted Pops.

_Who would I ask to get tickets to the next Falcs game? I’m in Samwell for graduation and wanted to treat a few of the guys._

The return text came before he even got his pie crust assembled.

_Pretty sure you have at least one friend on the Falconers you could ask for a couple of tickets. How many do you need?_

_Four,_ Bitty responded. _And I can pay for the tickets. Should I just go through the front office?_

Somehow, Bitty could hear the sigh coming from Texas when Pops texted back, _I’ll take care of it. Once the games are set. I’ll let you know._

****************************

Pops was as good as his word, texting Bits that there would be four tickets under his name at will-call for the first game against the Capitals on May 13, two nights before graduation. When Bitty asked, Pops said he didn’t owe him anything, except maybe a pie when he got back to Houston and got settled.

 _Oh, and Jess really likes those cookies you made,_ Pops said.

That … wasn’t tremendously clear, but Bitty had some time to figure it out. If he ended up in Baton Rouge, well, he could always ship baked goods.

Nursey, Dex and Chowder were suitably impressed when Bitty told them about the game. He wished he had an actual gift to give them, in addition to the gift baskets he had been baking for, but they seemed thrilled,

“I get to see Snow and Holtby in the same game!” Chowder said.

Bitty drove Chowder to Providence in his truck and Dex drove Nursey in his truck.

“Think they’ll both make it in one piece?” Bitty asked.

“They’ll be fine,” Chowder said. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but they’re getting along a lot better these days. Sometimes I think they argue just for the fun of it.”

Then Chowder asked about going to training camp as a draftee, and that conversation carried them the rest of the way.

The tickets were there as promised. Bitty’s eyes nearly fell out of his face when he saw where they were: 10 rows back, behind the benches. He had just been hoping for something without an obstructed view.

Then he found all-access passes in the envelope, with a note.

“Hey, Bitty. Pops said you were bringing some of your old teammates to the game. If you want to bring them down to the locker room after the game, we’d be happy to see you. Marty”

When he showed the frogs, their eyes almost fell out, too.

“Can we go, Bitty?” Chowder said. “You think it’s really ok?”

Bitty shrugged. “Well, he invited us, so I don’t see why not,” he said.

“Just how well do you know St. Martin?” Dex asked. “This is a pretty big favor to ask.”

“Not too well,” Bitty said. “But Pops is close to him. I asked Pops how to get tickets, and he said he’d take care of it. I didn’t expect all this.”

“Well, you can always repay him in pastry, right?” Nursey said, maintaining what Bitty was sure was a facade of nonchalance.

“Sure can,” Bitty said. “Now we have to go so I can find out what his favorite pie is.”

The teams skated out for warm-ups, and Marty took the time to find them in the crowd and shoot them a thumbs up. He nudged Jack and pointed, and Jack almost did a double-take before smiling and offering a small wave.

Bitty thought that might be enough for the camera people to find them, and sure enough, during one of the TV timeouts in the first, he and the frogs appeared on the scoreboard. Bitty, dressed in a black T-shirt and a Falconers blue hoodie, waved for the crowd as a picture of him scoring his goal during his game here flashed next to the image of him in the stands.

He knew he was blushing when Jack pointed at him while he skated to the faceoff circle.

There was no score at the end of the first period. The Falconers led 1-0 at the end of two, but the Caps came back and won 2-1.

Bitty and the frogs hung back until the media left. Then they entered the locker room.

Marty, already showered and almost dressed, saw them right away.

“Eric Bittle!’ he said. “Thanks for coming to see that sorry effort. Who’re your friends?”

Bitty introduced them, and when Dex and Nursey were marvelling over the size of Tater’s biceps (“Seriously, dude, what do you do to get muscles like that?”) and Chowder was gushing over Snowy’s 15 saves in the third, not mentioning that it wasn’t Snowy’s fault the D broke down, Bitty saw Jack at his stall, staring hard at the floor as he tied his shoes, and sidled over.

“Hey, Jack,” he said. “Rough game. You played well, though.”

“Not well enough,” Jack said, barely looking up. “Why’re you here, Bittle?”

“I just came back to Samwell to see my teammates graduate,” Bitty said. “I thought it would be nice to bring them to a game.”

“So why’d you come down here?” Jack said. “We lost. Not much of a celebration.”

“It was still a good game,” Bitty said. “And it was just the first game of the series. Anyway, we came down to thank Marty for the tickets.”

“Yeah, that Marty’s a good guy,” Jack said. “Always ready to help out.”

“Yeah, he is,” Bitty said. “It was nice of him.”

Jack nodded. A brief silence fell, then Jack spoke again.

“Must be rough, watching from the stands in May,” he said.

“Must be nice, not to know,” Bitty replied.


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Bitty rambles.

Bitty still had his key to the Haus, so after graduation, after Chowder got a ride to the airport from Dex and Nursey’s moms took him back to New York, Bitty sat in the quiet of the backyard and contemplated the rest of his summer.

It was too late for him to want to start driving towards Georgia that day. Heck, it might have been too late for him to think about going back to Georgia at all. His time there after the season ended had been suffocating in a way it never was before. It wasn’t only the way Mama and Coach talked around his sexuality; it was that they still treated him like a child, and he allowed it. What would they do if he walked in the kitchen door and said, “Hi, folks, I’m gay”? Even if they kicked him out, he made more money in the last year than his parents had in the last two years combined. He could pay for a place to live. He didn’t think they’d do that anyway. He just didn’t want to lose their emotional support. But how real was that support if it would evaporate if he said he was gay?

It was a question that had never occurred to him before he came to Samwell, and one that had been gnawing at him one way or another ever since. Maybe he shouldn’t be worrying so much about it now; with his position on the Aeros, he couldn’t exactly go looking for dates, even if his teammates didn’t seem to mind. The only people who would understand would be those in similar positions.

Once or twice he’d thought Jack … but there was no way Jack had been flirting with him. Not in front of Mashkov and Marty and Aeros he didn’t even know. Besides, Jack had made it painfully clear the other night what he thought of Bitty. Had he been amused that Bitty was pathetic enough to come and watch another team play after the Aeros were booted from the playoffs?

Then he was so annoyed that the boys had invaded his precious dressing room. Maybe their presence stopped Jack from giving his own team a massive dressing-down. No one seemed to mind that they were there, except Jack, who decided to take it out on Bitty by reminding him of his own team’s failure.

Still, it had felt good, those last three months or so, to occasionally see Jack’s name pop up with a text notification. It felt good, Bitty supposed, to have someone who was undoubtedly one of the best players in the league notice him, encourage him, act like he thought Bitty actually could play hockey. Bitty knew he could play; he’d been drafted as a sophomore and called up during his first season, hadn’t he? But somehow, Jack’s opinion carried more weight.

It had also felt good to glimpse the man behind the image. Somehow, that poster of Jack in his underwear concealed his personality more than a full suit did in person, at dinner after a game. The pre- and post-game interviews never included Jack’s sly smile when he got a good chirp off, or his laugh, especially when a chirp was at his expense.

Well. Jack didn’t exist to make Bitty feel good, and Bitty could be generous enough to admit it had been a bad moment after the game for Jack. That’s what Bitty told Chowder on the way back to Samwell, when Chowder left off praising Holtby and Snow long enough to say, “Jack Zimmermann didn’t seem very friendly when you were talking to him. Have you met him before? He always looks like he’s about to yell at someone.”

“Not always,” Bitty had told Chowder. “But no, he wasn’t very friendly tonight.”

Now Chowder was gone, owner of a newly minted CS degree and an invitation to the Schooners’ training camp after a stint at home in northern California.

Tomorrow Bitty would start the drive back to Georgia, but not until he called the Aeros conditioning coach. He would ask the coach to set Bitty up with someone to work with over the summer – maybe work with Bitty himself – and when Bitty got back to Madison, he’d pack the truck and move himself to Houston. Sure, he might be heading back to Baton Rouge in the fall, but showing enthusiasm for the Aeros wouldn’t hurt.

*************************

Bitty folded his lawn chair and brought it into the kitchen as the sun moved further west. The Haus was empty except for Bitty, and no one would be here until a couple of last year’s frogs arrived to take up summer residence next week.

Bitty wanted to bake something, but he’d have no one to share it with, and the nutritionists would not look kindly on him eating a whole pie because he was lonely. They wouldn’t know, really, but Bitty would. Mini pies maybe? He could eat one or two and put the rest in the freezer for the summer frogs.

That sounded like too much work. Bitty wished he still had his vlog. That way he could bake something to leave in the freezer and moan about his life at the same time. Not that he had any right to moan, but still.

Maybe he could call Ricksie, find out how his time in suburban Toronto was going. That was another point in favor of spending the summer in Houston: Ricksie had announced plans to move south after a few weeks at home with his parents. He also wanted to get away from being treated like a child, although his motivations were a little different.

“Dude, I mean, it’s not like I can bring anybody home to my parents’ house,” Ricks said. “I still sleep in a twin bed with my peewee trophies on a shelf.”

Ricks was a year younger than Bitty, but he’d been in the Aeros system for longer, having gone pro right out of junior hockey. Still, he reminded Bitty of his SMH teammates more than anyone else he’d played with since graduating.

Ransom and Holster were on their annual pilgrimage to Niagara Falls now that Holster’s season was over. Bitty had seen the snaps to prove it. Maybe Shitty and Lardo were in Boston. The last time Shitty had weighed in on the group chat, he’d been complaining about exams. That was last week. Maybe he was done now.

Bitty reconsidered his plan. If Shitty was done, and he and Lardo were in the Boston area, Bitty could take at least another day or two before leaving for Georgia. He missed his old team.

Bitty found his phone on the counter where he’d left it when he went outside. There was a missed call from Mama – she’d want to know his plans, the better to worry over him driving that old truck by himself. There was also a text from Jack, the first contact since two nights ago.

_Can I call you?_

He checked the time: 6:30 p.m. Jack was due on the ice for Game 2 in a hour and a half.

Bitty texted him back.

_Sure. Whenever you have time. Good luck tonight!_

Before Bitty moved away to forage for dinner from what was left in the kitchen, his phone rang.

“Bitty,” Jack said. “Thanks for talking to me. I have to apologize for my behavior the other night. And I do know,”

“Um, ok,” Bitty said. “Apology accepted, I guess. Don’t you have a game to play?”

“Yes, but Marty said I should call before the game if I could,” Jack said.

“Marty said?” Bitty asked. “What does Marty have to do with this?”

“He kind of said I was being an asshole to you,” Jack said. “And he’s right. That game was bad, but there was no reason to take it out on you.”

“Ok,” Bitty said.

“And I do know what it’s like to watch other teams move on,” Jack said. “We didn’t even make the playoffs my first year. I’m kind of impressed that you were willing to bring your friends by – I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”

“It really wasn’t a chore,” Bitty said. “I like those guys and I like hockey, so it seemed like a good plan. Now go play your game, Mr. Zimmerman.”

“Are you somewhere you can watch?” Jack asked.

“I’m still in Samwell,” Bitty said. “Everyone left after graduation today, so I was going to tidy the Haus up a bit and get back to Georgia tomorrow or the next day. But I’ve got my laptop and NHL Network, so yes, I’ll be watching.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Can I talk to you after the game?”

“Sure,” Bitty said. “But …”

“But what?”

“Look, I don’t want to say anything negative, and I’m sure you’ll play well, but if you lose, don’t feel obligated,” Bitty said.

“No,” Jack said. “I won’t feel obligated. But I will want to talk to you.”

“All right,” Bitty said. “I’ll make sure to stay up a while after the game.”

Jack ended the call, and Bitty looked around. If he was going to stay up, he should be doing something besides sitting on Chowder’s old bed with his laptop.

There were still apples in the kitchen. Mini pies it was.

***********************************************************

Two hours after the game, Jack hadn’t called.

It couldn’t be because he was upset; the Falconers had put on a clinic, winning 5-0. Jack had a goal and and an assist, and 10 different players made the scoresheet, not to mention Snow’s shutout.

Maybe the team was out celebrating. They had an extra day off before their next game in DC.

If Jack was celebrating with his team, Bitty couldn’t begrudge him. It was a big win to even the series, to build confidence in the team, to head into the opposition rink with momentum.

But there was a limit to how late Bitty should have to stay up and wait for Jack’s call. He’d go to bed with his phone on Chowder’s desk (what used to be Chowder’s desk) and if Jack called, if the phone woke him, he’d answer.

Bitty finished wrapping the mini pies in freezer paper to store them away. He hadn’t eaten any after all. Without his regular training regimen, he wasn’t as hungry. Another sign that it was time to get back to it.

Before he could put the tray of pies in the freezer, there was a knock at the door.

It was past midnight, and no one should be here. But a burglar wouldn’t knock, and Samwell was kind of empty right after graduation, and maybe someone needed help.

So Bitty flipped the porch light on and peeked around the curtain, ready to open the door as long as it looked ok, although even a teenage girl could have a gun … and he’d been listening to Mama too long.

There was Jack Zimmermann.

“Oh my Lord, Jack, what are you doing here?” Bitty said while he was still pulling the door open. “It’s the middle of the night. You shouldn’t have driven all the way up here after your game. You must be exhausted – have you eaten anything?”

Jack, still in his game-day suit (which had to have been custom made to fit like that), waited for Bitty to run out of words.

“I’m fine, really,” Jack finally said. “I ate at the arena before I left, but I could eat a little more. It’s not that far – a lot of the guys live at least this far from the arena. But if you’re heading back to Georgia tomorrow or the next day, I didn’t want to miss my chance to talk to you.”

Jack looked down. He was still standing on the welcome mat that Bitty’s mother had sent up with him the year he moved in, the one that had, “Hey, y’all!” in cursive script carved into the sisal fibers.

“Where are my manners?” Bitty said, finally stepping back to let Jack in. “I just made some mini pies. Let me heat some up. You can sit in here if you want –” Bitty gestured toward the living room, then winced – “but you might want to avoid the nasty couch.”

Jack just kept following him, so Bitty said, “Or we could sit in the kitchen. Much cleaner.”

Bitty busied himself by turning the oven on and unwrapping four of the small pastries. 

“Good thing I hadn’t put these in the freezer yet,” he said. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Do you want – not coffee, it’s too late –”

He rooted through a cabinet that had three kinds of protein powder. What had these boys done to his kitchen? Then he found a box of orange herbal tea with no caffeine. Orange tea and apple pie. Not ideal, but not too bad.

“Do you want some tea?”

Jack was leaning against the counter just watching him.

“Sure,” Jack said. “Tea would be fine.”

Bitty checked the water level in the electric kettle – he wasn’t sure who had brought it, but he’d decided it was a valuable addition to the kitchen – then flipped the switch. “That should just be a minute. Please, have a seat.”

Jack sat at the rickety table and Bitty pulled out plates and mugs, forks and spoons.

“I heard that you baked,” Jack said. “Marty said that you promised him a pie for the tickets.”

“I did,” Bitty said. “But I figured it would be better if I sent it after the season. Do you know what his favorite kind is?”

“No idea,” Jack said.

“I’ll have to ask him, then. Or ask Pops to ask him,” Bitty said. “I don’t have his number.”

“I can give you that,” Jack said. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Jack didn’t seem to be any closer to explaining why he’d driven to Massachusetts at midnight.

Bitty poured hot water over the tea bags in the mugs, then turned to pull the tray with the mini pies from the oven.

“What’s your favorite kind of pie, then?” Bitty asked.

“Uh, I don’t really know,” Jack said. “I don’t eat a lot of pie. Do you ask everybody that?”

Bitty shrugged. “People I like,” he said. “I keep a list for people on my team. Figure they might want to keep me around longer.”

“I don’t think you really need to worry,” Jack said. “The Aeros winning percentage went up as soon as you got there, and the team scored more and gave up fewer goals with you on the ice.”

“You looked me up?” Bitty said, taking the seat opposite Jack.

“I try to keep up with my opponents.”

“You haven’t played the Aeros since February.”

It was Jack’s turn to shrug.

“You’re a better player than you give yourself credit for,” Jack said. “You’d be better if you didn’t try to hit so much, but you’re good.”

“Is that what you drove all this way to say?” Bitty asked.

“Not really. I wanted to apologize for being rude,” Jack said.

“You already did that, on the phone,” Bitty said.

“I wanted to explain,” Jack said. “I know it was only one game, and I know we didn’t play that badly. But when Marty pointed you out, I wanted to impress you.”

“I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about,” Bitty said. “I mean, look at the two of us.”

“No, I mean –”

Jack stopped and took a bite of the pie on his plate.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said.

“I know,” Bitty said. “Go on.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Jack started again. “But Marty said he heard that maybe you weren’t straight?”

Bitty felt himself straighten up. This could be very bad, or it could be very good. Very, very good. But he didn’t need other teams targeting him, which was why the first words out of his mouth were, “I’m gonna kill Pops.”

“No,” Jack said. “I mean, it’s ok, whichever way, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Ok?” Bitty said, still not willing to give anything away.

“I think Marty and Pops were trying to be the world’s most interfering wingmen,” Jack said.

Bitty noticed that Jack hadn’t quite given anything away either, although it looked like …

“And you drove all this way to apologize … for their interfering?”

“I’m not doing a very good job of this,” Jack said. “Look, I’m going to trust you, because I like you, and Marty said Pops said you were a good guy, and I know you went to school here, and I know the reputation, and even if you are straight you wouldn’t be an asshole.”

Well, there weren’t too many other ways to interpret that.

“I’m not,” Bitty said.

“Not an asshole?” Jack said.

“Not straight,” Bitty said. “I’ve known I was gay since before I knew the word for it.”

Jack released a breath Bitty hadn’t known he was holding.

“I’m not either,” Jack said.

“Not an asshole?” Bitty arched a brow, suddenly feeling more sure of his footing.

“My behavior the other night notwithstanding?” Jack gave a rueful laugh. “Not straight. Bi, actually.”

Bitty nodded. “And there’s a reason you’re telling me this?”

“I like you,” Jack said again. “Not just as a hockey player. I like talking to you and listening to you and looking at you. If you’re willing, I’d like to get to know you better.”

Bitty felt himself melt a little bit inside, watching this beautiful man watch him while he spoke so earnestly. He reached over the table and fit his hand over Jack’s.

“I like all those things about you, too,” Bitty said. He tightened his hand. “And I like touching you. I’m pretty sure I’d like kissing you, too.”

Jack pushed his chair back from the table to make room, and Bitty got up and let himself be pulled in. The first kiss was a just a brush of lips, the second was a brief press. Then Jack tugged Bitty closer, encouraging Bitty into his lap. Bitty kissed along Jack’s jaw, coming back to Jack’s mouth when gasped and Bitty could take Jack’s lower lip and suck on it.

He pulled back briefly and said, “Yep, I was right. I do like kissing you.”

Then he let Jack gather him back in.

They stayed like that, Bitty perched on Jack’s thighs in the kitchen chair, until Jack groaned and Bitty remembered that Jack had played a game that night and must be ready to collapse.

“Come on,” Bitty said, standing up and extending a hand to Jack. “Let’s go upstairs to bed. You need to sleep.”

“Just sleep?” Jack said.

“Well, there’s always morning,” Bitty said. “But you need to rest. Just don’t look in the hallway bathroom.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com)!


End file.
